


The Music Between the Worlds

by Panic_CelestialInk



Category: Book of Life (2014), Coco (2017)
Genre: Día de los Muertos | Day of the Dead, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Musicians, Nightmares, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-03 16:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16329362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panic_CelestialInk/pseuds/Panic_CelestialInk
Summary: The gentle melody drifted in through the window, and made Manolo’s heartstrings hum. He craned his neck as he tried to see where the music was coming from. There, sitting on a bench by the fountain was a young boy with a guitar and a dog by his feet . . .





	1. Manolo

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of falling deeply, deeply in love with the "Coco" movie. I love those characters so much as I can relate to the difficulties the family went through. I've watched it three times now--and I still want to watch it again.
> 
> I also happen to love "the Book of Life" and so a cross over fanfiction was inevitable. This fiction is in two parts--the first from Manolo's perspective, and the second from Miguel's. 
> 
> Just a quick note: I speak no Spanish, so all the Spanish is courtesy of internet browsing. I even created my own glossary for the purposes of the fic. Please let me know if I got anything wrong.
> 
> Enjoy

Manolo closed his eyes and let the music flow through him. His fingers danced across the strings of his guitar. It was a lively, celebratory melody that made his spirit soar.

 

“That’s really beautiful.”

 

Manolo jumped, sending out a string of tortured notes, He winced, and opened his eyes to look at the speaker. Maria stood in the doorway. His heart somersaulted as he looked at the woman he’d loved since before he fully understood what love was. Her dark hair fell in cascading curls, and her red nightgown hung loosely off one shoulder. There was a playful smile lingering on her lips as she looked at him.

 

“Sorry for interrupting,” she said, “But, the song was so magnificent I had to say _something_. What’s it called?”

 

Manolo set down the guitar as he thought. “I’m not entirely sure yet,” he admitted. “All I have is the basic melody. It needs some tweaking before I can find the lyrics to fit. I just need to work on it a bit more.”

 

“So, I take it you’re not coming to bed yet?” She asked, as her eyes travelled to the grandfather clock by the window.

 

“Bed? But it’s only—” His jaw dropped as he saw the time.

 

Then, he noticed the full moon sailing outside the window, and the dark shadows pooling in the corners of the room. The mixture of moonlight and lamplight fell on the heavy furniture, and illuminated the military-inspired tapestries on the wall.

 

“I didn’t realise it was so late,” he admitted, as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “Were you waiting up for me? I’m sorry if I—”

 

Maria laughed, cutting off the apology. “Manolo, I knew you were a musician when I married you. I’m not going to be surprised if you sit up all night composing.” She crossed the room and lightly cupped his cheek. He leaned into the touch, and then pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand.

 

“I’m sorry for keeping you awake, _mi amor._ I’ll come to bed if you want?”

 

“No, you have something really beautiful here. It would be a pity to leave it unfinished.” Her smile became mischievous. “Besides, I’d hate to interrupt your affair.”

 

“Affair?” he repeated blankly.

 

"You and your music.”

 

“Maria!”

 

She gave him a playful shove, and he caught her hand. He intertwined their fingers, and then tugged her towards him. Their lips met in a kiss that seared him to his bones. His free hand tangled in her hair and he might have forgotten about his new song entirely if she hadn’t pulled away from him.

 

“I’ll see you and your new song tomorrow.” She lightly patted his cheek, and slipped back out the door, pausing only to send him a warm smile as she left.

 

Manolo stared after her for a moment, before he scooped up his guitar. He caught sight of the familiar words Maria had written on his guitar all those years ago:

 

_Play from the heart._

 

Manolo lightly started strumming and the familiar notes of “ _I Love You Too Much_ ” floated into the air. After a moment, he stopped. He’d promised to show Maria his new song, after all. He changed the position of his fingers went back to the lively melody he’d been playing earlier. The familiarity tugged at him, even as he changed the notes and tempo. He knew he was drawing inspiration from somewhere, but he didn’t—his fingers still on the strings as he realised. The Land of the Remembered. The music was based on the songs he’d heard there.

 

He set down the guitar and ran a hand over his face. He supposed it wasn’t a bad thing to be inspired by that world. The music there had been _incredible._ There’d been lively salsa music, haunting ballads, and loud, infectious guitar solos. Manolo had managed to see some musicians performing there. It had been some form of a contest where the winner got to play at the party of the famous musician, Ernesto de la Cruz. Well, maybe not so famous anymore with the fact that he’d stolen another man’s music.

 

Manolo thought back to the performance he’d seen. The musician had been a young boy wearing a red hoodie, and strumming a guitar. Unlike all the other performers who had done renditions of “ _Remember Me_ ”, the boy had chosen a fun, upbeat song “ _Un Poco Loco_ ”. He’d had an excellent voice, and performed with all the eagerness of youth. During the performance, a skeleton in ragged clothing had joined him on stage and accompanied the boy with a lively dance number.

 

The two were easily the best performers of the night. Manolo would have loved to have spoken with them about their music, but his mother reminded him that he had to speak to La Muerte about Maria, and they left before the performance was over.

 

 _The music wasn’t the only thing I brought back,_ he thought as he glanced down at his chest. Peeking out past his half-open pyjama top was the stylised image of a _cempazúchitl_ petal. It had appeared on his chest, directly over his heart when he returned to the Land of the Living, a visual reminder of his journey.

 

He shook himself.

 

_Maybe it’s better if I just put this aside for a little while. I just need to take a quick walk, clear my head, and then I’ll be able to focus. Maybe, if I do, I won’t find the influence of the Land of the Remembered so . . . disturbing._

 

With that thought, Manolo stood, cracked his spine, and left the room.  

 

He made his way down the corridor that was filled with portraits, rusty military equipment and assorted antiques, like the rest of Joaquin’s house. Manolo and Maria hadn’t planned to stay with Joaquin after their wedding. The newlyweds had thought about travelling around Mexico, but they’d seen Joaquin struggling to cope with the loss of his eye. He kept bumping into objects, fumbling basic tasks, and flinching away from things that weren’t there. Without really needing to discuss it, Manolo and Maria had moved into Joaquin’s house, just to make sure that he was all right. Though, it had meant that they left their beloved San Ángel for Santa Cecilia—the small village where Joaquin lived when he wasn’t running around playing hero.

 

Joaquin’s house was a bizarre shrine to his late father. There were pictures of Captain Mondragon glaring down at Manolo from every wall, and statues of him littered the corridors. The Captain’s uniform was placed in a thick, glass case, and his medals were kept on display for the world to see. When Manolo and Maria had moved in, Joaquin had muttered something about “cleaning up”. He’d packed away some of his father’s belongings—and donated some to the local museums—but there was still so much to put away. Manolo guessed that Joaquin felt guilty about removing his father’s belongings.

 

As Manolo passed the bust of the Captain Mondragon just outside Joaquin’s room, he heard a muffled cry of pain. Manolo stopped. He went over to Joaquin’s door and rapped on the door.

 

“Joaquin, are you all right?”

 

No answer. He rapped on the door again.

 

“Joaquin?”

 

Still nothing. But, when Manolo strained his ears, he could hear whimpers. He shoved open the door. Manolo went cold as he saw Joaquin curled into a tight ball on his bed, his hand clamped over his missing eye.

 

“Joaquin!” Manolo yelled, as he rushed over to his friend, nearly tripping over Joaquin’s discarded boots and uniform. He reached Joaquin and felt him shaking beneath his fingers.

 

“Joaquin, what’s wrong?”

 

Joaquin raised his head, and Manolo started at how pale he was.

 

“Hurts,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

Manolo looked about the room. The Joaquin’s room was almost bare, other than the few pieces of utilitarian furniture. Then, he spotted a stack of pills and a glass of clean water on Joaquin’s side table. Manolo grabbed them and thrust them at Joaquin.

 

“Drink.”

 

Joaquin winced, and reached for the pills with one hand. He threw them into his mouth, and gulped down the water. Then, he braced himself and attempted to sit up, keeping his one hand tightly pressed against his missing eye as he did so. Manolo tried to help him, but Joaquin waved him away.

 

“I can manage,” he snapped, his moustache twitching irritably.

 

Privately, Manolo thought that Joaquin was being stubborn, but he let the man settle himself into a seated position. Manolo sat down beside him. For a moment, they sat there in silence. Then, Joaquin turned to Manolo.

 

“Manolo, would you pass me my eyepatch, please.”

 

“Sure thing, brother.”

 

Manolo picked up the simple piece of fabric and handed it to Joaquin. Joaquin turned away from Manolo as he put the patch on, leaving Manolo with a view of the scars on Joaquin’s bare back. Manolo could understand why Joaquin was self-conscious about his injury, but he wished Joaquin wouldn’t be. After all, Joaquin had been injured trying to save Manolo—did he really think Manolo was going to make comments about his injury?

 

After he’d finished putting on his patch, Joaquin turned back to Manolo. Manolo folded his arms, as he looked Joaquin up and down.

 

“What’s going on, Joaquin?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Oh yes. Finding you in pain is always “nothing”.”

 

Joaquin’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not sure. My injury is really hurting me tonight—and it’s not the first time. I—” he cut himself off, and Manolo sensed that there was more to the story. But, one look at Joaquin’s face, and Manolo knew that asking Joaquin for more information was pointless.

 

“Should I call the _médico_?”

 

 “No. I’m fine. The pain killers should start working in a few minutes. Anyway, what are you doing awake?”

 

Manolo smiled sheepishly. “I had a song in my head and I couldn’t sleep. But, I . . . I needed a glass of water.”

 

Joaquin gave him a look, as though he knew Manolo wasn’t telling him the whole truth, Then, Joaquin shook his head, an expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation on his face. “You need your sleep, little brother.”

 

“That’s what Maria said. But, the song. Joaquin, the song was so good!”

 

Joaquin chuckled. “You haven’t changed since you were a kid.”

 

Manolo frowned. “I don’t know . . . there are some things that have changed,” he said, as he glanced down at the _cempazúchitl_ petal on his chest.

 

“Yeah,” Joaquin rubbed at his eyepatch, and hissed in pain.

 

“Are you sure you—”

 

“Go back to your music, Manolo. I’m fine.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Of course.” Joaquin struck a heroic pose, which was somewhat marred by the hand he kept over his eye. “I’m the hero of San Ángel _,_ after all.”

 

Sometimes, Joaquin could be so stubborn. “All right.” Manolo rolled his eyes and stood. “But, call me if you need help.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Joaquin made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Manolo glanced back at him, and then left the room.

 

He stood in the corridor for a moment, before deciding that he would actually get a glass of water. As he passed the open window, he paused and looked out. Joaquin’s house had a beautiful view of the Mariachi plaza. The lamps in the plaza were lit, and offered Manolo a perfect view. There was a large gazebo with painted awnings on the one side of the plaza, and in front of it was an area made from patterned brickwork where people could dance. Besides that, there were a few gnarled trees growing in the plaza, with benches tucked beneath them to take advantage of the shade. There was also fountain that gurgled merrily in the plaza. The merry sound brought a smile to Manolo’s face. Then, something else caught his attention.

 

_For even if I'm far away, I hold you in my heart_

_I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart_

_Remember me_

The gentle melody drifted in through the window, and made Manolo’s heartstrings hum. He craned his neck as he tried to see where the music was coming from. There, sitting on a bench by the fountain was a young boy with a guitar and a dog by his feet. It was his voice that hooked Manolo. He turned away from the window, and raced down the corridor to the stairs that led to the courtyard, and then out to the plaza. Belatedly, Manolo realised he’d forgotten to put on his slippers, but there was no chance he was going to waste time going back to get them. Manolo ran across the courtyard, and pushed open the door that led to Mariachi plaza.

 

He looked about, and spotted the boy who was still seated on the bench. Now that Manolo was closer he could see that the boy was dressed in worn, faded pyjamas and had forgotten his slippers, just like Manolo. His guitar was old and covered in markings like a _calavera_. A Xolo dog lay by his feet, and wagged its tail in time to the lullaby. As Manolo got closer, he recognised the musician. It was one of the youngsters from the shoemaker family.  What was his name again? Manuel? Miguel?  It was something like that. The boy looked exhausted. His hair stuck up in all directions, as though he’d spent the night tossing and turning. 

 

Manolo listened to the lullaby. It was a familiar song—one made famous by Ernesto de la Cruz—but Manolo had never heard it played like that before. This version was soft and gentle and completely different from the bombastic version Manolo knew. After the last few lines, the boy stopped, and set down his guitar. Manolo couldn’t help it— he clapped. The boy let out a yell. He tumbled off the bench and his dog jumped onto of him, evidently thinking it was a game.

 

“No! Dante, get off!” the boy yelled.

 

The dog barked happily, and proceeded to lick his face. Manolo laughed, and went over to give the boy a hand.

 

“I’m sorry, are you all right, _chamaco_?” Manolo asked.

 

“Dante, down! Get off.” The boy shoved the dog off him.

 

Manolo held out a hand. The boy took it after a moment’s hesitation and Manolo helped the boy to his feet.

 

“I’m fine, thanks,” Miguel said as he dusted off his pyjamas.

 

“I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” Manolo said. “I heard your music, and I couldn’t help coming over to talk to you.”

 

The boy winced, and said. “I’m sorry if I woke you, _señor_ ”

 

“It’s Manolo. Manolo Sánchez .”

 

“I’m Miguel Rivera, and this,” he reached down and affectionately scratched the dog’s head.  “Is Dante.” The dog jumped up and, and tried to lick Miguel’s face again.

 

“No! Get down, you silly dog!” Miguel shoved Dante down again.

 

He wiped his face, and gave Manolo a look. “Are you one of the people who moved into the Captain’s house?”

 

“ _Si_. My wife and I moved in with Captain Mondragon’s son, Joaquin.”

 

“I know Joaquin. He always orders his boots from us.” Miguel snickered. “I think my cousin Rosa _likes_ him.”

 

 _Her and about half the women in the world,_ Manolo though Manolo caught sight of the guitar, and asked, “Where did you learn that beautiful song? Did you adapt it from “ _Remember Me_ ” by Ernesto de la Cruz?”

 

A furious look shot across Miguel’s face. “That man’s not a _músico_. He’s a monster and a—” he cut himself off. “I really don’t like that man.”

 

“I see. So, where did the song come from?”

 

Miguel’s chest puffed out. “It’s something my great-great grandfather used to sing to his daughter, my Mamá Coco, when she was small.”

 

 “So, why are you singing it in the middle of the night in the plaza?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep.”

 

There was a look in the boy’s eyes that pulled at Manolo’s heartstrings. He sat down on the bench, and Miguel took a seat next to him.

 

“Why don’t you tell me the whole story? One _músico_ to another?”

 

“You’re a _músico_?”

 

“ _Si._ Do you want me to play you something? How about “ _I See Fire_ ”?”

 

“No . . . it’s okay.” Miguel sighed, and glanced down at Dante. “ I don’t know what to tell you . . . . you’d never believe me,” he said at last

 

“Try me.”

 

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “All right. The last _Día de Los Muertos_ , I stole a guitar, got cursed for it and ended up in the Land of the Remembered where I met my dead relatives and learnt the song.”

 

Manolo’s jaw dropped. Miguel shook his head at the reaction.

 

“You see, I _knew_ you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

Miguel stood up, and Manolo grabbed his arm. “You went to the Land of the Remembered as well?”

 

Miguel’s eyes widened. “What do you mean _“as well_ ”?”

 

“I-I ended up in the Land of the Remembered on _Día de Los Muertos_ as well.”

 

Miguel gave him a flat look. “You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not! I saw it all. The colourful buildings and the bridges with no railings. Not to mention the glowing bridge made from _cempazúchitl_ petals. There were magnificent _alebrijes_ everywhere, and the music. The music! There was every kind of music you could think of. Sensual salsa music, jazz, rock music that made your head pound and—”

 

Manolo realised that Miguel wasn’t listening any longer. He was staring at Manolo—or rather, at a spot on Manolo’s chest. Manolo looked down and saw that his tattoo was peeking out again.

 

“Where did you get that?” Miguel asked.

 

“It appeared right after I returned to the Land of the Living,” Manolo said, quietly.

 

Miguel stared at it for a moment, and then wordlessly lifted his shirt. Directly over his heart was a tattoo of a _cempazúchitl_  petal —an identical one to Manolo’s.

 

“I believe you,” Miguel said, as he lowered his shirt.

 

The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Manolo asked, “Do you want to tell me the whole story, _chamaco_?”

 

Miguel folded his arms. “You tell me first.”

 

“Well,” Manolo wondered where he could start the story. “You know that there’s the Land of the Remembered?”

 

Miguel nodded and Manolo said, “There’s also the Land of the Forgotten and . . .”

 

Manolo told Miguel about Xibalba and La Muerte, the deities who ruled the two realms and the wager they’d placed on whether Maria would fall for him or Joaquin. He spoke about wanting to be a musician while his father wanted to him to be a bullfighter. Miguel seemed very sympathetic to that, and even Dante gave a sympathetic whine. Manolo told Miguel about Maria’s return, his attempts to impress Maria and how they’d fallen in love—though he ignored the boy’s grossed-out expression—and then how he’d thought Maria had died from a snake bite.

 

Hesitantly, he spoke about how Xibalba tricked him into dying and how he’d challenged the god for the right to return to life. Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out his head when Manolo described the challenge he’d faced.

 

“A giant, flaming skeleton bull?”

 

“Yes. I had to fight a giant flaming skeleton bull.”

 

“You’re joking, right?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then, how did you kill it?”

 

“Would you let me tell my story?”

 

Miguel fell silent, and Manolo told him about how Manolo had realised that the creature was tormented because it had died at the hands of Manolo’s ancestors  . . . and so Manolo had apologised to it through song and it had dissolved into the next life. Then, Manolo told Miguel about how the bandits had attacked San Ángel and almost killed everyone.

 

“We all thought that Chakal was finished, but he lit all his bombs, yelling that if he was going to die, he would take the town with him. Joaquin and I ran forward, and we both realised that the only way to save San Ángel was to bring the bell down ontop of us. I shoved Joaquin aside and brought the bell down on me and Chakal. I thought I would die, but Joaquin slipped me the Medal of Everlasting Life. I married Maria and that was the end of it.” Miguel looked impressed.

 

“Wow.”

 

Manolo rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Miguel a look.

 

“Now it’s your turn.”

 

Miguel glanced at Dante, who laid his head gently on Miguel’s lap and whined. Miguel took a deep breath and began his tale. He told Manolo about how he loved music, but how his whole family banned it because his great-great grandfather had abandoned the family for music. He spoke about being desperate to be a musician, and stealing Ernesto de la Cruz’s guitar in order to play in the talent show—because he thought Ernesto was his ancestor. 

Manolo listened carefully as Miguel described being cursed in the Land of the Remembered and needing his family’s blessing to return. Miguel spoke guiltily of rejecting his family in favour of getting Ernesto de la Cruz’s blessing. He spoke of meeting Héctor, a ragged con artist, and how the two of them attempted to win entry into Ernesto de la Cruz’s party.

 

“Wait, I saw you two!”

 

“What?”

 

“I saw you two perform. You were amazing. Truly incredible.”

 

Miguel gave an embarrassed smile, and grabbed his right forearm with his left. “Thank you.”

 

Manolo laughed as Miguel sang a few lyrics of “ _Un Poco Loco_ ” before continuing his story.  Miguel’s face became grave as he spoke about how he’d found out the truth about Ernesto—how he’d murdered Héctor for his music. And, how Héctor was his real great-great grandfather and was in danger of the final death because Mamá Coco was forgetting him.

 

“The last I saw of Papa Héctor, he was glowing yellow, like he was about to disappear forever. I woke up in La Loser’s shrine. I grabbed his—I grabbed _Papá Héctor’s_ guitar and ran back to the house. Mamá Coco was there and I tried to get her to remember Papá Héctor, but it didn’t work. In the end, I played “ _Remember Me_ ” for her—” Tears flowed down Miguel’s cheeks and he quickly brushed them away. “As I played, it was like she woke up. She even sang along. When I was done, she started talking about Papá Héctor. It turns out she had a photograph of him, and letters from him while he was away. She saved them all . . .”

 

“So, she remembered.” Manolo reached over and gave Miguel’s shoulder a squeeze. “Well done, _chamaco_.” Miguel looked away and scooped up his guitar. 

 

“I hope she remembered in time, but . . .” his voice splintered a little. “What if I was too late? What if in that moment, Papa Hector . . . vanished?”

 

“He wouldn’t be the first human, and he wouldn’t be the last,” a smooth, dark voice interjected.

 

Manolo knew that voice. He went cold and twisted around on the bench. Standing a short distance away in the shade of a gnarled tree was Xibalba. He looked even more gruesome than Manolo remembered. Xibalba was made from tar and ectoplasm, and had a cold aura of power. His conquistador armour gleamed in the light of his eerie candles and the skulls upon it seemed to grin mockingly at Manolo. His red, skull-shaped pupils were fixed on Miguel, and Manolo shifted slightly to put himself between the dark god and the boy.

 

Dante snarled at Xibalba and a second later he was joined by a grey alley cat. The cat hissed at Xibalba and Xibalba raised his eyebrows.

 

“That would be more impressive if you were in your other form.”

 

Manolo wondered what Xibalba was talking about. Miguel looked shocked. The animals ignored Xibalba’s comment, and remained between the god and Miguel. Xibalba rolled his eyes.

 

“Would you two let me past? I have no interest in the boy.”

 

The cat gave Xibalba an assessing look, and lightly hopped onto the side of the fountain. Dante lay down by Miguel’s feet, and continued to growl warningly at Xibalba.

 

Xibalba ignored him and came over to the two musicians. The air seemed to grow colder as he approached.

 

“What are you doing here, Xibalba?” Manolo asked, once he was close enough. “Aren’t you busy in the Land of the Forgotten?”

 

Xibalba tilted his head. “I can visit the human world occasionally, though I usually have to wear a disguise.”

 

“Why aren’t you in disguise now?” Manolo asked, gesturing at Xibalba’s armoured figure.

 

An irritable tremor passed though Xibalba’s tattered wings, and the candles flared slightly. “You and the boy have been to the Land of the Remembered. My disguises no longer work on you two.”

 

“Ah.” Manolo said. “So, why are you here?”

 

If Manolo wasn’t mistaken, a sheepish look flitted across Xibalba’s face before he masked it with an indifferent façade. “I need to talk to you.”

 

“Me?”

  
“Him?” Miguel said at the same time.

 

“Yes. You.”

 

“Me?” Manolo repeated incredulously. “Why do you need to talk to me?”

 

Xibalba raised an eyebrow. “I need to ask a few questions, that’s all.”

 

Manolo’s wondered what on earth Xibalba could want to talk to him about. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miguel’s face. The boy was watching Xibalba with an expression of fascination, and his fingers were still tightly clenched around the guitar.

 

An idea occurred to Manolo, and he folded his arms as he turned back to Xibalba.

 

“Sorry, but after what you put me through? No way.”

 

Xibalba threw his arms in the air. “Come on! You won the bet didn’t you? You’re back in the Land of the Living—and you got the girl in the end! _What more do you want?!”_

 

“I want a deal.”

 

Xibalba paused, and Manolo saw the curiosity in his eyes. “You want to make a _deal_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What sort of deal are we talking about? After all, you’ve already faced your worst fears.”

 

Manolo gestured at Miguel. “I’ll answer your questions” _whatever they are_ “if you’ll help out Miguel here.”

 

Xibalba rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. Now, what do you want, _chamaco_?”

 

Manolo saw that Miguel was trembling. Dante let out a warning growl as Xibalba leant closer to Miguel. He swallowed hard, and stood. Miguel raised his head and met Xibalba’s creepy gaze. The skulls in Xibalba’s eyes swivelled to focus on Miguel. For a moment, Manolo thought he could see something soften in Xibalba’s gaze. Manolo shook himself slightly. _Xibalba? Soft?_ Impossible.

 

Miguel let out a long exhale and said. “I need to know if my Papá Héctor—my great great grandfather—went through the final death. Or if he’s in the Land of the Forgotten? Or—or what happened to him after I went home.”

 

“Why do you want to know?” Xibalba asked, staring intently at Miguel.

 

“Because he’s my family.” Miguel’s tone implied that Xibalba was a moron for asking.

 

Xibalba’s face was inscrutable. He gave Miguel a long look and his eyes seemed to glow.

 

“Wait here. I’ll go get your answer.” Shadows rippled around him and he disappeared, leaving behind the smell of smoke. The two musicians stared at the spot where Xibalba had been. Then, Miguel returned to his seat on the bench. Dante placed his head on Miguel’s lap, and Miguel stroked his head. The cat came over, and rubbed itself against Miguel’s feet. Manolo was surprised that Dante didn’t chase her away.

 

“Are you all right?” Manolo asked him. Manolo remembered all too well when Xibalba read Manolo’s mind. The cold touch of the god’s power had left him feeling unsteady and trembling.

 

Miguel nodded. “ _Si._ I just feel a little . . . shaky. And g _racias_ for, you know . . .”

 

“It’s no problem. That’s what we _músicos_ do, right? We help each other.”

 

“ _Si._ ”

 

Miguel turned back to Manolo. “So, that was Xibalba?”

  
“Yes.”

 

“He’s creepier in real life.”

 

“Oh yes!”

 

“Do you think he’ll have my answer?”

 

“He is the ruler of the Land of the Forgotten, so if anyone has an answer for you, he does.”

 

“Can we trust him?”

 

“Well . . .”

 

That was a complicated question. On the one hand, Xibalba had cheated on the bet and tricked him into dying. On the other hand, Xibalba had brought Manolo back to life and helped save San Ángel.

 

“I think so . . .” Then, Manolo chuckled. “If he messes you around, we can always call on La Muerte to sort him out. She’s got a way of handling her husband.”

 

“Does she hit him with a shoe?”

 

“Not quite, but she did give him a slap when she found out he’d cheated on the bet.”

 

Miguel chuckled. “I would have paid to see that.”

 

“It was funnier when my mother slapped him.”

 

“She sounds like my great-great grandmother. She—”

 

There was a rush of cold wind and Xibalba reappeared in a cloud of smoke. He flapped his wings twice, and leant on his staff. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

 

“It’s done.”

 

They stared at him. “What is?”

 

Xibalba looked at Miguel. “Your answer. It’s waiting for you. All you have to do is follow the trail.”

 

“What trail?” Miguel asked.

 

“This one.” Xibalba tapped twice on the ground with his staff, and stepped aside. Behind him was a trail of glowing _cempazúchitl_ petals leading out of Mariachi plaza. Miguel’s eyes lit up. He leapt to his feet, startling Dante, and ran a a short way down the path. Then, he skidded to a halt. He looked at Xibalba.

 

“ _Gracias_ , _señor_ ” he said. Dante also gave a happy bark.

 

This time, Manolo definitely saw the soft look in Xibalba’s eyes. It was gone in an instant, though. The god made an angry gesture at the path.

 

“Just get going, before I change my mind.”

 

Miguel gave Manolo a wave, “Thank you again!”

 

“Let me know what happens?!” Manolo shouted back, as he returned the wave. “Will do!”

 

Miguel raced down the path with Dante right beside him. The cat was nowhere to be seen, though Manolo thought he saw a large shadow following the boy. Xibalba waited until the sound of Miguel’s footsteps vanished, and then he turned back to Manolo.

 

“I’ve upheld my end of the bargain,” Xibalba drawled as he toyed with the end of his beard. “Now it’s time to uphold yours.”

 

“All right.” Manolo braced himself. “What’s your question?”

 

Xibalba’s mouth worked for a moment, and then he rubbed the back of his neck. His wings tilted inwards in embarrassment and he looked away. Manolo fought the strange urge to laugh.

 

“It’s La Muerte,” Xibalba mumbled at last.

 

“What about her?” Manolo asked, as he thought of Xibalba’s vibrant sombrero wearing wife.

 

“I-it’s the first anniversary since she forgave me.” Xibalba spoke to the ground.  “And I—I want to do something special for her. But, I don’t know what. I thought you might have some advice, since you managed to win your woman.”

 

Manolo clamped his hand over his mouth, but it was no use. He doubled over laughing until his chest ached. Xibalba scowled at him.

 

“It isn’t funny,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

“Yes, it is,” Manolo managed to wheeze out.

 

“I don’t need your mockery,” Xibalba snapped as his candles flared. “All I want to do is show my wife I—I love her.”

 

The laughter fizzled out as Manolo saw that Xibalba was being genuine. He straightened up. Despite their history, Manolo couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Xibalba. His brow furrowed as he thought about his attempts to win Maria—in particular, a certain song.

 

_Play from the heart._

A small smile crept across his face. He looked back at Xibalba.

 

“I won Maria because I sang to her.”

 

“So, I should serenade La Muerte?” Xibalba asked, sceptically.

 

“No. You should do something genuine. Something that comes from your heart. For me, that’s music. For Joaquin, it’s dancing or calligraphy. And, for Maria—she paints. It’s different for everyone. As long as it’s sincere, it will work.”

 

Xibalba shifted. “I’m not creative,” he muttered.

 

Privately, Manolo disagreed. The challenge he’d set for Manolo had been pretty creative—and dangerous.

 

“Maybe there’s something that only you can do. Something La Muerte likes?” Manolo asked hesitantly.

 

Xibalba’s eyes lit up and the black candles on his armour flared excitedly.

 

“There is something . . . something that La Muerte loves.”

 

“All right. What is it?”

 

A smirk spread across Xibalba’s face. “I’ll give a little demonstration.” He looked about. “But not here.”

 

Before Manolo could protest, Xibalba flapped his wings, and the world went dark. Manolo felt like he was falling rapidly, as an unseen wind tore through his hair. He landed hard, and staggered a few steps. Slowly, he looked about. He recognised this place. It was a large cavern with black stalactites protruding from the ceiling, and black stalagmites spiking upwards from the floor. The cavern was lit by the sickly green light of the candles scattered about. A cold wind filled Manolo’s nose with with the smell of ash. Manolo tried to breathe calmly. He was in the Land of the Forgotten. He was in the Land of the Forgotten and—he looked down quickly and his legs went weak with relief. He was still flesh and blood. No skeletal bones. _No calavera_ markings. Living flesh and blood.

 

He heard a chuckle and spun around. Xibalba was watching him with a wide smirk on his face.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll send you back. I just thought this would be a better place for my demonstration.”

 

 _You’d better,_  Manolo thought. Aloud, he asked “Demonstration of what?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Xibalba flexed his fingers and mumbled something about not having done this in centuries. Around his fingers dozens of tiny flames appeared. They darted happily through the air, and filled the entire cavern. The beautiful golden light suddenly made the space seem warm and inviting. Manolo gaped, wondering how something so magnificent could come from someone gruesome like Xibalba.

 

Xibalba made a gesture, and the flames raced through the air, swooping, soaring, spiralling in all directions. Some of them burst into showers of coloured sparks; others left glowing trails behind them. The way they moved . . . . it was bizarrely rhythmic. Without really thinking about it, Manolo started to hum. Xibalba raised an eyebrow, and made the flames dance in time with Manolo’s humming. As they danced, Xibalba made them change colour with another flick of his wrist. The cavern was suddenly filled with a variety of colours: bottle green, azur, cherise, burnt orange, ruby and shimmering gold.

 

It was more magnificent than any firework display Manolo had ever seen—and Xibalba still wasn’t done. The flames shifted, becoming gorgeous representations of animals. Some became blazing stallions, others became delighted dolphins. A number of dragons swooped around swarms of fiery butterflies. A few flames transformed into flaming _cempazúchitl_ rained petals down onto Manolo’s head, though the petals held no heat, only light. Manolo guessed it was a kind of joke on Xibalba’s part. After a few moments the flames winked out, leaving the two of them staring at the empty air.

 

“I think that would work,” Manolo said, once he found his tongue.

 

“I hope so.” Xibalba idly dusted off his armour. “It should bring back memories at least. The problem is, this seems to be more impressive to music.”

 

Manolo looked at him. “I’m sure you know a dead _músico_ that can help you out.”

 

“There is someone I know. I think I could work out a deal with him . . .”

 

Then, Xibalba titled his head and his eyes became distant. He shook himself and refocused on Manolo.

 

“Unfortunately, there’s something else I need to check on.”

 

“No, wait—”

 

Manolo didn’t get to finish his sentence as the darkness suddenly whirled around him, with the sensation of being flung suddenly upwards. His feet slammed into the ground, and he staggered backwards onto the bench. He blinked, and looked around.

 

He was back in Mariachi plaza, seated right beside the gurgling fountain. Everything was exactly the same, from the gnarled trees to the gazebo standing proudly off to one side. Only the glowing trail of _cempazúchitl_  petals and the dark god standing in front of him indicated that anything strange was happening. Xibalba tilted his head again.

 

“I need to get going.”

 

“ _Si_. Me too.”

 

To Manolo’s surprise, Xibalba held out a hand. “Thank you for the help.”

 

Trying not to look too shocked, Manolo shook Xibalba’s hand. Manolo could tell that Xibalba was being sincere, so he tried not to shudder at the god’s clammy grip.

 

Xibalba stepped back, and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Manolo alone in the plaza other than the smell of smoke. Manolo stood, and stretched. It had been a bizarre night. Meeting another musician who’d seen the Land of the Remembered and Xibalba asking for romantic advice. . .  He glanced at the doorway leading towards Joaquin’s house and grinned. He walked towards the doorway and as he walked, he hummed his favourite song.

 

“ _I Love You Too Much_ ”

 

 

 


	2. Miguel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the next part of my story. In this, we see things from Miguel's perspective,
> 
> Once again, please let me know if I've made any mistakes with the Spanish. And, fair warning, I use what I believe is a Spanish insult in this section of the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_Miguel ran forward. He clutched Héctor’s picture tightly in his fist, as he searched desperately for his family. He had to get home and put Héctor’s picture on the_ ofrenda _. A chill passed through him as he dashed through the backstage area. Huge props of various things like cacti, rocks and flames towered over him. Broken lighting equipment and abandoned musical instruments littered the floor. In the distance, he could hear the heavy tread of Ernesto’s bodyguards. But, he couldn’t find any of his family members. He looked around desperately. Then, he saw a flash of golden light and a pained cry echoed through the room._

 

_“_ _Papá Héctor_ _!” Miguel shouted, as he raced towards the flickering light. “I’ve got it! I got the photograph!”_

_He leapt over a fallen piece of scaffolding and froze as he saw_ _Héctor_ _._ _Héctor_ _lay on the floor, gasping for breath. His hat had been knocked off his head, and gold light kept flickering through his joints. He raised his head and gave Miguel a weak smile. “Good job,_ Mijo _. Now we can send you home.”_

 

_“And then I’ll fix things when I put your photograph on the_ ofrenda _,”Miguel promised._

_Miguel stepped forward just as a hand clamped around his wrist. Miguel twisted around, and stared into the furious face of Ernesto de la Cruz. The man looked deranged—his hair fell in all directions, and Imelda’s boot-prints were all over his white suit. There were teeth missing, and an evil glint in his eyes._

 

_“You’re not going anywhere,” Ernesto snarled, and jerked Miguel backwards. He snatched the photograph out of Miguel’s hand and crumpled it in his fist._

 

_“No, you can’t do that!” Miguel struggled, and Ernesto struck him across the face. Miguel’s head rang and he felt blood running down his face._

 

_“Ernesto! Leave him alone!” Miguel had never heard Héctor sound enraged before—and that included when he’d found out Ernesto murdered him._

 

_Out of the corner of his eye, Miguel saw Héctor struggling to his feet. Gold light shot across his bones and he collapsed with another pained cry._

_“Papá Héctor!” Miguel struggled, and Ernesto slapped him again. Miguel’s head felt like it was going to come off his shoulders._

_"Ernesto!” Miguel could see Héctor dragging himself across the floor towards them. Rage still burnt in his eyes. “He’s a living child! He has nothing to do with this! Let him go!”_

 

_Ernesto glared at Héctor. “Never! I’m not letting him take everything away from me! I’ve worked too hard to let some brat ruin everything.”_

 

_More golden light engulfed Héctor. Ernesto gave a nasty smile._

 

_“Say goodbye to Papá Héctor,” he snarled._

 

_“No!” Miguel screamed._

 

_Héctor dissolved into a shower of gold._

 

“Papá Héctor!” Miguel yelled.

 

He jerked bolt upright, and snapped his head around. His surroundings confused him. Where were the broken lights and unused props? Where was all the scaffolding? Then, he recognised the familiar guitar propped in the corner of the room—a guitar decorated like a _calavera._ Other things slowly became familiar to him. The rumpled bedspread and the clothes draped over his chair. His schoolbag sat in the corner of the room, with most of his homework still untouched. The dozens of posters of musicians on the walls, and the piles of new CDs on his desk. Beside the CDs a stack of letters—letters Héctor had written to Imelda (and Coco, though he admitted in one of the letters that he knew Imelda would have to read them to her.)

 

Miguel wiped his damp forehead. It was all right. He was back in his room. Back in the Land of the Living and—he glanced down at his hands for confirmation—he wasn’t cursed at all. Then, he pulled up his pyjamas and glanced at his chest. There, directly over his heart was a stylised tattoo of a _cempazúchitl_ petal _._ It had appeared when Imelda and Héctor had given him their blessing. He didn’t mind the tattoo—he actually thought it looked quite cool.

 

He rubbed his chest and looked at the letters on his desk. Coco had asked _Abuelita_ Elena to read out the letters. When she did, Miguel’s spirits lifted at the thought of Héctor’s stories being passed down for him not to be forgotten. And, the letters made him feel closer to his ancestors, despite _Abuelita_ Elena skipping over some of the paragraphs and muttering that those things weren’t for children. When he’d asked her if he could keep some of the letters, she’d only given him the ones she’d deemed appropriate for him to read—though she had promised that she wouldn’t  destroy the rest of them.

 

_Surely, having everyone remember was enough to save Papá Héctor?_ Miguel thought to himself.

 

_But, Mamá Coco forgot for a while._ A small, nasty voice hissed inside his ear. _Maybe Héctor disappeared_ before _she remembered._

Miguel shook his head vigorously, as if to dislodge the thought. He swung his legs out of the bed. A moment later, he had his guitar in hand, and was creeping towards the front door. He kept close to the stone wall as he snuck through the house. Years of hiding his love for music had given him an excellent knowledge of how to sneak out. He knew which floorboards creaked and which didn’t. He knew which doors had squeaky hinges and which ones opened without a whisper. He even knew which of his family members slept so lightly a cat’s tread could wake them, and which ones could sleep through a hurricane.

 

Miguel crept through the house as quiet as a cat and slipped through the front door. He shivered as the wind nipped at his skin. At this time of year, the nights were cold enough to warrant a thick jacket. But, he wasn’t about to go back inside for one. No. He was going to find a nice spot, and play until he drowned out the nasty thoughts in his head. He glanced back at his home with a pang. Everything looked so peaceful behind the wooden shutters and carved doors. He hoped no one would wake up and find him missing. He really didn’t want to worry them again.  

 

 

_I’m not going to be long. I’ll just sit in the open air and play a few songs. Just enough to clear my head._ He walked briskly down the street, moving nervously between the pools of lamplight. After a few moments, he heard excited barking, and a black blur shot out of the alley towards him. Miguel blinked, and grinned.

 

“Dante!” The dog barked in confirmation.

 

Miguel didn’t see Dante often since the dog had become a full _alebrije,_ and he missed his pet—though not always when he was so excitable.

 

‘Sshhh! Dante, don’t!” Miguel tried to shush the dog, but Dante kept jumping about, barking excitedly. Miguel gave up and shoved Dante’s nose away from his guitar. As he did, he caught sight of a stray cat watching them. The cat’s presence was both comforting and familiar and Miguel noticed that she had an impressively large shadow. Miguel gave a nod to the cat, and continued his way through the winding road and to the plaza. To his surprise, the grey alley cat followed them, and Dante didn’t bother to bark at her.

 

Mariachi plaza was deserted so late at night, though someone had left the lamps glowing merrily. Miguel’s eyes wandered past the gazebo with its colourful awning, and past the open space where the dancers usually twirled, to the deeper shadows beneath the gnarled trees. He dismissed sitting under them almost immediately. There wouldn’t be enough light for him to play. Then, he spotted a worn, wooden bench beside the gurgling fountain in the middle of Mariachi plaza. It would be the perfect place to sit and play. Miguel crossed the plaza and sat down on the cold bench.  His fingertips brushed the strings, and a few eager notes slipped out. Miguel took a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow exhale. He wished he could let out a rousing _grito_ like Héctor taught him to, but he didn’t want to wake the whole neighbourhood.

 

He glanced down at his guitar. His music might still wake someone, but . . . as long as he played softer than the fountain, it should be all right? Probably. Dante sat at his feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The alley cat had settled down in a nearby tree and was still watching him through glowing yellow eyes.

 

“What do you say, Dante?” Miguel asked. “Shall I play “ _The World Es Mi Famila_?”.”

 

Dante tilted his head and whined.

 

“How about _“Un Poco Loco”_?”

 

Another whine from Dante. Miguel felt a smile tug at his lips. There was only really one song that helped when the nightmares stalked him. His fingers moved across the strings and a gentle lullaby drifted into the air. As soon as he played the first notes, his lingering fears faded.

 

_For even if I'm far away, I hold you in my heart_

_I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart_

_Remember me_

As he sang, he almost could hear Héctor singing along with him. He came to the final verse, and the last note hovered in the air for a second. A loud clap broke the sudden silence, and Miguel jumped. He let out a yelp and tumbled off the bench. His guitar, thankfully, didn’t get damaged. Before he could climb to his feet, Dante jumped ontop of him and tried to lick his face.

 

“No! Dante, get off!” the Miguel yelled.

 

Dante barked happily, and proceeded to lick his face. Miguel heard laughter, and shoved Dante’s face away as he glanced up. A barefooted man with in pyjamas stood near them. The man had smooth, dark hair, a friendly smile, and kind eyes. He wasn’t a native of Santa Cecilia, but Miguel had seen him around a few times. He was a friend of Joaquin Mondragon, or that’s what the rumours said.

 

“I’m sorry, are you all right, _chamaco_?” the man asked.

 

Dante jumped ontop of Miguel again, and Miguel shoved him aside. “Dante, down! Get off.”

 

The man held out a hand. Miguel hesitated, but then took his hand and let the man help him to his feet.

 

“I’m fine, thanks,” Miguel said as he dusted off his pyjamas.

 

“I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” the man said. “I heard your music, and I couldn’t help coming over to talk to you.”

 

_Oh no._ Miguel winced, and said. “I’m sorry if I woke you, _señor_ ”

 

“It’s Manolo. Manolo Sánchez .”

 

“I’m Miguel Rivera, and this,” Miguel reached down and affectionately scratched Dante’s ears.  “Is Dante.” The dog jumped up and, and tried to lick Miguel’s face again.

 

“No! Get down, you silly dog!” Miguel shoved Dante down.

 

He wiped his face, and saw Manolo watching him with an amused expression. “Are you one of the people who moved into the Captain’s house?” Miguel asked.

 

“ _Si_. My wife and I moved in with Captain Mondragon’s son, Joaquin.”

 

“I know Joaquin. He always orders his boots from us.” Miguel snickered. “I think my cousin Rosa _likes_ him.”

 

Manolo shook his head, and his eyes landed on Miguel’s guitar. “Where did you learn that beautiful song? Did you adapt it from “ _Remember Me_ ” by Ernesto de la Cruz?”

 

Fury shot through Miguel. As if he would ever copy that _cabrón_.

 

 “That man’s not a _músico_. He’s a monster and a—” he cut himself off as he saw Manolo’s shocked expression. “I really don’t like that man.”

 

“I see. So, where did the song come from?”

 

Miguel’s chest puffed out. “It’s something my great-great grandfather used to sing to his daughter, my Mamá Coco, when she was small.”

 

Manolo raised his eyebrows. “So, why are you singing it in the middle of the night in the plaza?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Miguel muttered.

 

Manolo’s expression softened. He sat down on the bench, and Miguel took a seat next to him.

 

“Why don’t you tell me the whole story? One _músico_ to another?”

 

“You’re a _músico_?” Miguel asked in surprise.

 

“ _Si._ Do you want me to play you something? How about “ _I See Fire_ ”?” Manolo said eagerly, and Miguel almost laughed. Between Manolo wanting to talk to Miguel about his music and his eagerness to play, there was no doubt he was a _músico._

 

“No . . . it’s okay.” Miguel sighed, and glanced down at Dante. “I don’t know what to tell you . . . . you’d never believe me,” he said at last

 

“Try me.”

 

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “All right. The last _Día de Los Muertos_ , I stole a guitar, got cursed for it and ended up in the Land of the Remembered where I met my dead relatives and learnt the song.”

 

Manolo’s jaw dropped. Miguel shook his head at the reaction.

 

“You see, I _knew_ you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

Miguel stood up. It was getting late, and he didn’t feel like dealing with suggestions involving therapy and psychiatrists. Then, Manolo grabbed his arm. “You went to the Land of the Remembered as well?” Manolo asked in a chocked voice.

 

Miguel’s eyes widened, as he processed the key words. “What do you mean _“as well_ ”?”

 

Manolo winced, as though he hadn’t meant to say that. “I-I ended up in the Land of the Remembered on _Día de Los Muertos_ as well.”

 

Miguel gave him a flat look. “You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not! I saw it all. The colourful buildings and the bridges with no railings. Not to mention the glowing bridge made from _cempazúchitl_ petals. There were magnificent _alebrijes_ everywhere, and the music. The music!—” Manolo gestured wildly and his pyjama top opened. Miguel’s eyes widened. There, on Manolo’s chest was a tattoo of a _cempazúchitl_ petal—exactly like the one Miguel had.

 

_But_ _,_ _that_ _means_ _. . . that_ _means that he really did visit the Land of the Remembered._

 

“Where did you get that?” Miguel asked. He needed to be certain, after all.

 

Manolo looked down at his chest, at the tattoo over his heart. “It appeared right after I returned to the Land of the Living,” Manolo said, quietly.

 

Miguel stared at it for a moment, and then wordlessly lifted his shirt. He saw Manolo’s eyes widen as the man saw Miguel’s _cempazúchitl_ petal tattoo.

 

“I believe you,” Miguel said, as he lowered his shirt.

 

The two of them stared at each other. Finally, Manolo asked, “Do you want to tell me the whole story, _chamaco_?”

 

Miguel folded his arms. “You tell me first.”

 

“Well . . . You know that there’s the Land of the Remembered?”

 

Miguel nodded and Manolo said, “There’s also the Land of the Forgotten and . . .”

 

Miguel felt his jaw drop as Manolo described Xibalba and La Muerte, the deities who ruled the two realms and the wager they’d placed on Manolo and his two friends. Miguel felt a great deal of sympathy for Manolo when Manolo spoke about wanting to be a musician while his father wanted to him to be a bullfighter. Then, the story became a bit icky as Manolo told Miguel about Maria’s return and how they’d fallen in love—and how he’d thought Maria had died.

 

Manolo had to take a few deep breaths before he was able to speak about how Xibalba tricked him into dying and how he’d challenged the god for the right to return to life. Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out his head when Manolo described the challenge he’d faced.

 

“A giant, flaming skeleton bull?”

 

“Yes. I had to fight a giant flaming skeleton bull.”

 

“You’re joking, right?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then, how did you kill it?”

 

“Would you let me tell my story?”

 

Miguel fell silent, and Manolo told him about how Manolo had apologised to the tormented creature through song and it had dissolved into the next life. Then, Manolo told Miguel about how the bandits had attacked San Ángel and almost killed everyone.

 

“We all thought that Chakal was finished, but he lit all his bombs, yelling that if he was going to die, he would take the town with him. Joaquin and I ran forward, and we both realised that the only way to save San Ángel was to bring the bell down ontop of us. I shoved Joaquin aside and brought the bell down on me and Chakal. I thought I would die, but Joaquin slipped me the Medal of Everlasting Life. I married Maria and that was the end of it.”

 

“Wow.” It sounded like something out of a movie.

 

Manolo rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Miguel a look.

 

“Now it’s your turn.”

 

Miguel glanced at Dante, who laid his head gently on Miguel’s lap and whined. Miguel took a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly sure where to start, but . . . maybe the best place would be the music? It was what had started everything, after all. Miguel told Manolo about how he loved music, and how his whole family banned it because his great-great grandfather had abandoned the family for music. Miguel spoke about secretly learning how to play guitar and wanting to perform in the talent show. He told Manolo about stealing Ernesto de la Cruz’s guitar in order to play in the talent show—because he thought Ernesto was his ancestor. 

Miguel described being cursed in the Land of the Remembered and needing his family’s blessing to return. Manolo looked very shocked when he described Imelda’s blessing and her conditions. Miguel knew it sounded like she was cruel, but the conditions had been her way of protecting Miguel—and Miguel understood that now. Miguel spoke guiltily of rejecting his family in favour of getting Ernesto de la Cruz’s blessing. He spoke of meeting Héctor, a ragged con artist, and how the two of them attempted to win entry into Ernesto de la Cruz’s party.

 

“Wait, I saw you two!” Manolo interrupted excitedly.

 

“What?”

 

“I saw you two perform. You were amazing. Truly incredible.”

 

Miguel gave an embarrassed smile, and grabbed his right forearm with his left. “Thank you.”

 

Then, because Manolo looked so excited, Miguel sang a few lyrics of “ _Un Poco Loco_ ” before continuing his story.  Miguel’s face became grave as he spoke about how he’d found out the truth about Ernesto—how he’d murdered Héctor for his music. And, how Héctor was his real great-great grandfather and was in danger of the final death because Mamá Coco was forgetting him.

 

“The last I saw of Papá Héctor, he was glowing yellow, like he was about to disappear forever. I woke up in La Loser’s shrine. I grabbed his—I grabbed _Papá Héctor’s_ guitar and ran back to the house. Mamá Coco was there and I tried to get her to remember Papá Héctor, but it didn’t work. In the end, I played “ _Remember Me_ ” for her—” Tears flowed down Miguel’s cheeks and he quickly brushed them away. “As I played, it was like she woke up. She even sang along. When I was done, she started talking about Papá Héctor. It turns out she had a photograph of him, and letters from him while he was away. She saved them all . . .”

 

“So, she remembered.” Manolo reached over and gave Miguel’s shoulder a squeeze. “Well done, _chamaco_.” Miguel looked away and scooped up his guitar. He stared at the guitar, and tried not to think about how the _calavera_ markings reminded him of Héctor.

 

“I hope she remembered in time, but . . .” Miguel’s throat felt tight and his voice splintered a little. “What if I was too late? What if in that moment, Papá Héctor . . . vanished?” He hated speaking that fear aloud. It made it seem too real.

 

“He wouldn’t be the first human, and he wouldn’t be the last,” a smooth, dark voice interjected.

 

Miguel saw the colour drain from Manolo’s face. Manolo twisted around, and shifted as though to shield Miguel from view. Miguel peered around the man and stared. Standing in the shade of a gnarled tree was a towering figure in black conquistador armour. The armour was decorated with black candles alight with jade flames. A set of tattered angel wings sprouted from the figure’s back. But, it was the figure’s face that shocked Manolo the most—it had green skin, and eyes with pupils shaped like skulls. There was only one person it could be—Xibalba, the god of the Land of the Forgotten.

 

Dante snarled at Xibalba and a second later he was joined by the grey alley cat. The cat hissed at Xibalba and Xibalba raised his eyebrows.

 

“That would be more impressive if you were in your other form.”

 

What did he mean? Miguel stared at the cat, and then noticed her shadow properly. A huge, bulky feline figure with wings and ram’s horns.

 

No way . . . it couldn’t be _Pepita?_ Could it? The _alebrijes_ ignored Xibalba’s comment, and remained between the god and Miguel. Xibalba rolled his eyes.

 

“Would you two let me past? I have no interest in the boy.”

 

Pepita—Miguel was convinced it was her—gave Xibalba an assessing look, and lightly hopped onto the side of the fountain. Dante lay down by Miguel’s feet, and continued to growl warningly at Xibalba. Miguel felt comforted by their presence.

 

Xibalba came over to the two musicians. The air seemed to grow colder as he approached, and Miguel could smell tar on the god.

 

“What are you doing here, Xibalba?” Manolo asked. “Aren’t you busy in the Land of the Forgotten?”

 

Xibalba tilted his head. “I can visit the human world occasionally, though I usually have to wear a disguise.”

 

“Why aren’t you in disguise now?” Manolo asked, gesturing at Xibalba’s armoured figure.

 

An irritable tremor passed though Xibalba’s tattered wings, and the candles flared slightly. “You and the boy have been to the Land of the Remembered. My disguises no longer work on you two.”

 

“Ah. So, why are you here?” Manolo asked.

 

A strange look passed across Xibalba’s face, but it was gone before Miguel could identify it. “I need to talk to you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Him?” Miguel said at the same time.

 

“Yes. You.” Xibalba said again.

 

“Me?” Manolo repeated incredulously. “Why do you need to talk to me?”

 

Xibalba raised an eyebrow. “I need to ask a few questions, that’s all.”

 

Miguel clenched his fists around the neck of his guitar. Could-could this deity have the answers he wanted. Did he know what happened to Héctor? Manolo folded his arms as he turned back to Xibalba.

 

“Sorry, but after what you put me through? No way.”

 

Xibalba threw his arms in the air. “Come on! You won the bet didn’t you? You’re back in the Land of the Living—and you got the girl in the end! _What more do you want?!”_

 

“I want a deal.”

 

Xibalba paused, and Miguel saw that he was intrigued by the idea. “You want to make a _deal_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What sort of deal are we talking about? After all, you’ve already faced your worst fears.”

 

Manolo gestured at Miguel. “I’ll answer your questions if you’ll help out Miguel here.” Miguel tried not to stare, touched by Manolo’s kindness.

 

Xibalba rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. Now, what do you want, _chamaco_?” Xibalba asked Miguel.

 

Miguel realised he was trembling and tried to take calming breaths. Dante let out a warning growl as Xibalba leant closer to Miguel. He swallowed hard, and stood. Miguel raised his head and met Xibalba’s creepy gaze. The skulls in Xibalba’s eyes swivelled to focus on Miguel.

 

Miguel let out a long exhale and said. “I need to know if my Papá Héctor—my great great grandfather—went through the final death. Or if he’s in the Land of the Forgotten? Or—or what happened to him after I went home.”

 

“Why do you want to know?” Xibalba asked, staring intently at Miguel.

 

As soon as he did, Miguel shivered as he felt something cold breeze through his thoughts. Images flashed through his head. A bridge made of flower petals. Skeletons with _calavera_ markings. Enthusiastic _gritos._ And, a particular skeleton dressed in ragged clothing who usually wore a wide grin. 

 

“Because he’s my family.” Was Xibalba an idiot? Of course Miguel was going to worry about his family.

 

Xibalba’s face was inscrutable. He gave Miguel a long look and his eyes seemed to glow.

 

“Wait here. I’ll go get your answer.” Shadows rippled around him and he disappeared, leaving behind the smell of smoke. The two musicians stared at the spot where Xibalba had been. Then, Miguel returned to his seat on the bench. His legs felt like jelly and his heart was thundering in his chest. Dante placed his head on Miguel’s lap, and Miguel stroked his head. Pepita came over, and rubbed herself against Miguel’s feet—though she kept glaring at the spot where Xibalba had stood.

 

“Are you all right?” Manolo asked him.

 

Miguel nodded. “ _Si._ I just feel a little . . . shaky. And, _gracias_ for, you know . . .”

 

“It’s no problem. That’s what we _músicos_ do, right? We help each other.”

 

“ _Si._ ”

 

Miguel stopped scratching Dante and turned back to Manolo. “So, that was Xibalba?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He’s creepier in real life.”

 

“Oh yes!”

 

“Do you think he’ll have my answer?”

 

“He is the ruler of the Land of the Forgotten, so if anyone has an answer for you, he does.”

 

“Can we trust him?”

 

“Well . . . I think so . . .” Then, Manolo chuckled. “If he messes you around, we can always call on La Muerte to sort him out. She’s got a way of handling her husband.”

 

“Does she hit him with a shoe?” From Miguel’s experience, shoes were the chosen weapons of the Rivera females. Maybe a goddess would use them as well?

 

“Not quite, but she did give him a slap when she found out he’d cheated on the bet.”

 

Miguel chuckled. “I would have paid to see that.”

 

“It was funnier when my mother slapped him.”

 

“She sounds like my great-great grandmother. She—”

 

There was a rush of cold wind and Xibalba reappeared in a cloud of smoke. Miguel felt Dante stiffen beneath his hands. Xibalba flapped his wings twice, and leant on his staff. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

 

“It’s done.”

 

They stared at him. “What is?”

 

Xibalba looked at Miguel. “Your answer. It’s waiting for you. All you have to do is follow the trail.”

 

“What trail?” Miguel asked.

 

“This one.” Xibalba tapped twice on the ground with his staff, and stepped aside. Behind him was a trail of glowing _cempazuchitl_ petals leading out of Mariachi plaza.

 

Miguel’s eyes lit up. Suddenly it didn’t matter if Xibalba was trustworthy or not. If this was the only chance he had to find out what happened to Héctor, then he had to take it. Miguel leapt to his feet, startling Dante, and ran a short way down the path. Then, he skidded to a halt, and turned back to Xibalba who was still watching him with an almost soft expression on his face.

 

“ _Gracias_ , _señor_ ” Miguel said, as Dante barked happily.

 

The god made an angry gesture at the path. “Just get going, before I change my mind.”

 

Miguel gave Manolo a wave, “Thank you again!”

 

“Let me know what happens?!” Manolo shouted back, as he returned the wave. “Will do!” Miguel felt a little bad that he was leaving Manolo to deal with Xibalba, but he knew Manolo understood. Without another glance back, Miguel raced along the path, scattering petals as he went. Dante bounded along beside him, and Miguel was certain Pepita was somewhere close by.

 

 He was sure that his pounding heart would wake someone, but no one stirred. The thought that the path was magic shot across his mind, but he didn’t pay attention to it. The _cempazúchitl_ petal path led him through the village and back towards his house. Miguel stared at his home. It was glowing, just like the petals by his feet. He shook himself, as he reached the front door. The path lead directly inside, and his heart beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with his run. He glanced at Dante and Pepita, who were sitting by the wall.

 

“Stay?” he asked hopefully.

 

Dante let out a whine, but obediently lowered his head onto his paws. Pepita gave him an exasperated look, and then curled up next to Dante, Satisfied that the _alebrijes_ weren’t about to follow him, Miguel slipped inside the front door and continued following the path. His breath caught as he saw that the glowing petals led directly towards his bedroom. Miguel swallowed hard and followed the path until he reached his bedroom door. He grabbed the door handle with shaking fingers, pulled open the door and stared.

 

_Cempazúchitl_ petals filled the room. The floor was hidden beneath a glowing carpet of them, and there were piles of petals on his desk. Some floated through the air, and others decorated the stacks of CDs. The _cempazúchitl_ petals were even scattered across his bedspread and pillows. But, that wasn’t why the air rushed from Miguel’s lungs. Seated on his bed was a skeleton—a familiar skeleton with a straw hat and delicate golden _calavera_ markings. As soon as the skeleton saw Miguel, he grinned, making his gold tooth wink in the light of the glowing petals.

 

“Hello _Mijo_.”

 

“Papá Héctor!” Miguel yelled, and launched himself at Héctor, barely remembering to throw his guitar on the bed as he did so.

 

He slammed into Héctor and clamped his arms around him. Héctor held him tightly. Héctor was still as bony as Miguel remembered, but the hug was warm and comforting. Héctor ran his fingers through Miguel’s hair, and Miguel suddenly realised he was sobbing.

 

“It’s all right, _Mijo_. I’m here.”

 

Miguel couldn’t bring himself to pull away, even though his tears were soaking the front of Héctor’s vest, but Héctor didn’t seem to mind. Héctor just rubbed Miguel’s back soothingly, as though reassuring himself that Miguel was still alive.

 

“I’m sorry,” Miguel said, as he pulled away and rubbed his eyes.

 

“Don’t apologise, _mijo_. It’s normal to miss your family.”

 

“But, Papá Héctor, how are you here?”

 

“That’s my doing,” said a warm voice with a lilting accent.

 

Miguel turned and his jaw flopped open. Leaning against his desk was a woman with sugar white skin and liquorice-coloured hair that fell down her back in generous waves. _Calavera_ markings covered her limbs, as well as her face. She wore a red dress that hugged her figure and that was decorated with _cempazúchitl_ and dozens of candles. On her head was a huge sombrero adorned with more candles and feathers, and the air around her smelt of fresh flowers and baking. Miguel had never seen anyone so gorgeous before.

 

The woman smiled at the two Riveras. “I’m La Muerte. And, according to my husband, you made a deal with him so you could find out what happened to your great-great grandfather?” Miguel nodded and she continued, “since we have some leeway tonight, I thought you’d like to see him in the bones.”

 

Miguel wanted to thank her. He opened his mouth—and out came a squeak, along with the words “You have pretty hair.”

 

Héctor groaned, and La Muerte laughed in delight. Miguel felt the blood rush to his face and wished the ground would chomp him up. Unfortunately, obliteration never happens when you want it too. La Muerte came cover and patted Miguel’s hair gently.

 

“ _Gracias_ ,” Héctor said when it became clear Miguel couldn’t speak. She gave them both another smile.

 

“I’ll leave you two alone, then,” she said, and vanished in a swirl of petals.

 

Héctor immediately let out another groan and buried his face in his hands. “Miguel, _promise me_ that, at some point in your life, you’ll learn how to talk to women.”

 

“Hey, I’m only twelve! Gimme a break,” Then, Miguel smirked. “Anyway, I get it from you.”

 

“ _Me?!”_ Héctor looked indignant “I was never that awkward around women.”

 

Miguel snorted. “Yeah, right. The first time you tried to speak to Mamá Imelda you walked up to her, and tried to speak—except all that came out was a funny noise. Then, you turned red and ran away. Only, you ran so fast, you didn’t look where you were going and fell in the plaza fountain.”

 

Héctor cringed at the memory. “Who told you about that?”

 

“It was in one of the letters you wrote to Mamá Imelda.”

 

Héctor stared at him. “But, how did you find it?” Then his eyes widened. “You can’t read those letters! There’s grown up stuff in them!”

 

Miguel rolled his eyes. “I know. That’s why _Abeulita_ only let us read parts of the letters. And why she kept some of the letters.”

 

Héctor breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good . . . but you still didn’t tell me how you got the letters.”

 

“Mamá Coco had all the letters.”

 

Héctor’s eyes widened. “She—she had our letters?”

 

“Yes. And Mamá Imelda’s diary from when she was young.”

 

Héctor removed his straw hat and ran a hand through his hair as he slowly shook his head. “I asked Imelda about them a while ago, and she said she locked them away in a trunk. Only, a few years later, she found the trunk empty when she wanted to burn them.” He chuckled. “Coco must have stolen them all.” He laughed again.

“It’s a good thing, otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to pass down the stories to us,” Miguel said. He hesitated for a moment. “Papá Héctor, what happened after you sent me back?”

 

Héctor looked down at his hands, and Miguel saw a tremor run through him. Darkness fogged Héctor’s eyes. Suddenly, Miguel regretted asking. Before he could apologise, Héctor gave a broad, fake smile and waved a hand. “It wasn’t anything too special. I glowed for a while, and then Coco remembered and I came back. No problem.”

 

In that moment, Miguel knew Héctor wouldn’t tell him the whole story—probably out of a paternal attempt to shield Miguel from the truth. He resolved that when he eventually saw all his other family members, he’d ask them what really happened. _Tia_ Victoria was his best chance—she was the only one who didn’t seem terrified of Imelda.

 

Héctor fiddled with one of his suspenders, and Miguel finally took a proper look at Héctor. He looked—good. Better than he had when Miguel had first met him. His bones were whiter, and the tape around his one leg was gone. His pants had a proper belt, and he’d exchanged his tattered jacket for a new purple vest. On his feet was a pair of sturdy shoes.

 

“You got new shoes?” Miguel asked.

 

Héctor shifted in embarrassment. “Yeah. I can’t go wandering around barefoot.”

 

“Those are Rivera shoes. In Mamá Imelda’s original design.” Miguel gave Héctor a sly grin. “Mamá Imelda made them for you, didn’t she?”

 

“Yes . . .” Héctor looked embarrassed.

 

“Is she still angry with you?”

 

“Yes.” He winked at Miguel. “But, only because I ate the last slice of pie.”

 

Miguel gave Héctor a shove. “You know what I meant.”

 

Héctor’s expression became serious. “After . . . after the incident, I stayed for a few days in Imelda’s house, and came to the decision that I needed to leave before someone threw me out.”

 

“They wouldn’t have thrown you out,” Miguel said sharply. “Family is family. And family supports each other.”

 

That was a lesson Miguel had learnt the hard way. But, Héctor didn’t seem to hear him. “I slipped out of the house in the early morning, and walked through the streets. I had no idea where I was going—probably back to Shantytown. I couldn’t walk properly, and I kept hanging on to lamps or walls to keep from falling over. Then, I heard a roar. Pepita landed in front of me and riding her—”

 

“Was Mamá Imelda?” Miguel guessed

 

“Exactly. She was seething. She leapt off Pepita and started yelling at me and calling me an idiot for trying to walk around before I fully recovered. I thought she was going to clobber me with her boot.”

 

To be honest, Miguel was surprised she hadn’t. “What happened?”

 

“I said that I had to go because I didn’t want to be a burden to her.” He winced. “She got even angrier and yelled ‘ _Do you think looking after the love of my life is a burden?’_ We both went very quiet and then I asked her if she meant it. She glared at me, told me yes and then kissed me—before ordering me to get on Pepita and come home.” A smile crept across his face. “Since then, we’ve been together like . . . like it was supposed to be.”

 

“Yuck.” Miguel made a face.

 

“Wait until you fall in love, _mijo_. Then you’ll see.”

 

Miguel shook his head, but he couldn’t stop smiling. It was so good to see Héctor again, even if Héctor was talking about icky stuff.

 

“And you, Miguel? What’s happened for you?”

 

“Well,” Miguel thought for a while, and decided he’d leave the best news for last. “I managed to uncover evidence at the local library.”

 

“Evidence? Of what?”

 

“Your—your murder.”

 

Héctor went still, and Miguel quickly continued. “I had a lot of help from the local librarian. She uncovered some newspaper articles and stuff, so we were able to piece together some facts for the police to look at it as a cold case. We haven’t made any announcements about it because the police ordered us not to. In the meantime, we’ve been able to show that you wrote the songs, not Ernesto, so we’re organising a museum piece for you.”

 

“A museum piece?” Héctor sounded shocked.

 

“ _Si_ ,” Miguel said. “That way you’ll be credited with all your songs, and you won’t be forgotten. Not for a long, long time.”

 

Héctor let out a whistle. “ _Mijo_ , you’ve been busy.”

 

“Yep. And there’s one other thing . . . I have a little sister now.”

 

“A sister?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

Héctor’s eyes lit up and he let out a loud _grito_. Miguel shushed him, wondering how he would explain to his family if they woke up and found his skeletal great-great grandfather lounging on Miguel’s bed.

 

“That’s wonderful! Imelda will be so happy. She loves children.”

 

“You want to know her name?”

 

“ _Si_!”

 

“Socorro. Or “Coco” for short.”

 

Héctor’s eyes glistened, and Miguel’s own ones felt too full. Héctor untied the scarf around his neck and wiped his eyes, and then reached over and wiped Miguel’s.

 

“That’s a great name.”

 

“One of the best and—Papá Héctor!” Miguel yelled, as he realised. “You can go see Coco! She sleeps in the room opposite mine.”

 

Héctor stiffened and agony shot across his face. His fist clenched around his scarf. Then, he said in a hollow voice.

 

“I _can’t.”_

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I gave my word.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“There are rules,” a familiar voice said.

 

There was a whirlwind of petals and La Muerte reappeared, She leant against Miguel’s desk and toyed with one of the _cempazúchitl_ on the desk. A moment later, Xibalba stepped out of the shadows, and stood at the end of Miguel’s bed. Miguel thought that between La Muerte’s giant sombrero and Xibalba’s large wings, his room was a bit too crowded.

 

“There are rules,” La Muerte repeated, and her eyes were kind, as she glanced at Héctor.

 

“What rules?” Miguel demanded. He leapt off his bed and glared at the two deities.

 

“The Living may not interact with the Dead,” La Muerte said. “And though we have a little leeway on nights like this, Héctor can only interact with one living person: You.”

 

“But, he wants to see Mamá Coco.”

 

“So?” Xibalba asked. “What he wanted was never part of the deal.”

 

“It should have been!” Miguel retorted, narrowing his eyes at Xibalba.

 

Xibalba’s candles flared. “Watch your tone, _chamaco_.”

 

“Balby,” La Muerte said sharply, and Xibalba winced.

 

Miguel ignored their exchange. “Papá Héctor should have seen Mamá Coco. She’s his daughter. She—”

 

“It’s okay, _mijo.”_ Héctor interrupted. “It’s okay.”

 

 “But . . .”

 

Héctor stood up, and then guided Miguel back to his seat on the bed, ignoring the gazes of the two deities.

 

Miguel swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Papá Héctor.”

 

Héctor ruffled Miguel’s hair, and laid his arm across Miguel’s shoulders. “I’ll see her again. And, I have you to thank for that.”

 

La Muerte watched the two of them with a sad expression.

 

“It’s almost time, Héctor.”

 

“I guessed.”

 

“Let’s move along then,” Xibalba snapped irritably.

 

Héctor glanced at La Muerte. “Is there enough time for one last song?”

 

“No,” Xibalba said.

 

La Muerte glared at him, and he quickly said “Sure, sure, you can have a song.”

 

La Muerte smiled. “Of course you can have a song. What a good idea, _mi amor._ ”

 

Héctor and Miguel snickered and Xibalba blushed.

 

“ _Gracias_ ,” Héctor picked up Miguel’s guitar and ran his fingers over the strings. A melody flowed into the room, and Miguel felt it cover him like a blanket. 

 

_Remember me_

_Though I have to say goodbye_

_Remember me_

_Don't let it make you cry_

_For ever if I'm far away_

_I hold you in my heart_

_I sing a secret song to you_

_Each night we are apart_

_Remember me_

_Though I have to travel far_

_Remember me_

_Each time you hear a sad guitar_

_Know that I’m with you_

_The only way that I can be_

_Until you’re in my arms again_

_Remember me_

The lullaby had never been more potent to Miguel. He threw himself at Papá Héctor before the last notes faded. Héctor dropped the guitar and held Miguel instead.

 

“Don’t go!” the words burst from Miguel. He winced.

 

“I’m sorry Papá Héctor. I know you have to go, it just . . .”

 

_It feels like everything inside me has been torn out._

 

“ _Mijo_ , I feel the same. But, we will see each other again. Just, make sure you’re old and grey before we do.” Héctor squeezed Miguel tighter.

 

“I’ll do my best, Papá Héctor.”

 

“That’s good. I love you, _Mijo_.”

 

“Love you too, Papá Héctor.”

 

Miguel tightened his grip once more, then released Héctor.

 

“Are you ready to go?” La Muerte asked.

 

Héctor nodded. He re-tied the scarf around his neck and placed his straw hat back onto his head. He ruffled Miguel’s hair one last time, and then went over to the two gods. Xibalba glanced at him.

 

“You and I need to have a long conversation.”

 

La Muetre raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning, Balby?”

 

Héctor snickered, and Xibalba glared at him. “It’s nothing, _mi amor_ ,” Xibalba said quickly.

 

“Balby . . .”

 

“I promise, it’s nothing bad.” Xibalba took her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “You’ll see.”

 

La Muerte looked sceptical, but she gave him a fond smile.

 

She reached out to place her hand on Héctor’s shoulder and Xibalba did the same.  Before they disappeared, Héctor gave Miguel one last wave.

 

“I’ll see you on _Día de Los Muertos_.”

 

Miguel waved back. “I’ll play a song for you.”

 

“Make sure it’s something Imelda and I can dance to.”

 

“ _Si!”_

 

Héctor threw back his head and let out a loud _grito_ as he, the deities, and all the glowing petals vanished. Miguel blinked in the sudden darkness. He breathed in the scent of _cempazúchitl_ and wiped his eyes.

 

“Miguel?” Miguel stiffened. It couldn’t be. “Miguel?”

 

_Mamá Coco!_

 

Miguel tore across the hallway to Coco’s room. He shoved open the door, and squinted into the darkness. After a moment, he saw Coco struggling.

 

“Hold on, Mamá Coco,” he said.

 

He crossed the room and to give her a hand. Her bony fingers felt weak as she tried to grip his arm, and he couldn’t stop the thought that she was almost as thin as her father. In a moment, he had her sitting upright and turned on the bedside lamp.

 

“What is it, Mamá Coco?” He asked as he pushed her white braids out of her eyes.

 

She blinked. “I heard my Papá’s voice.”

 

“Erm, you were dreaming, Mamá Coco. It’s just a dream.” Miguel’s throat felt tight.

 

Mamá Coco looked at him, and her eyes were clear and sharp.

 

“No. I know my Papá’s voice.”

 

Miguel’s jaw worked as he tried to figure out a suitable lie. It died as soon as he saw the desperation in Coco’s face. She patted the bed beside her and Miguel sat down.

 

“Miguel, please, tell me everything.”

 

And so, Miguel did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> I really, really enjoyed reuniting Miguel with Hector, even if it was only briefly. I love the paternal relationship he has with his great-great grandson. Also, I had fun imagining how Hector and Imelda would interact after the events of the movie.
> 
> I also loved writing about Xiblaba and La Muerte. That has to be my favourite couple from the "Book of Life". 
> 
> I hope that the narrative perspective came across as Miguel, and that it wasn't too boring to read the same conversation twice? Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is Manolo's section done. I hope you all liked it.
> 
> Just a little side note, a great deal of the story was shaped by the TV Tropes Trivia pages on "the Book of Life." According to that website, Xibalba and La Muerte have many children, and Xiblaba is very protective of them, which is why Xibalba had a bit of a soft spot for Miguel.
> 
> Also, Manolo and Maria moving in with Joaquin was something the Director of the film says happened. He apparently likes the Maria/Manolo/Joaquin ship, so I think he likes to fuel that ship as much as he can.
> 
> Please let me know if anyone was out of character or if I can improve on anything.


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